


Fledge

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Vampires, dark!Sherlock, dark!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the utter darkness, Sherlock knew John’s fangs had descended, a Pavlovian response from decades of trained repetition.</p><p>Sherlock resisted, a stronger force than John as he wrenched his arm free from the other’s hold. “You aren’t feeding from me tonight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Exchangelock gift fic for [Aylien](http://www.aylien.tumblr.com)

As the sun began to crawl between the buildings and dusk progressed to overtake the city, Sherlock placed his mobile on the counter and gave his spoon a quick whisk inside his mug, before letting the blood-infused tea steep. He glanced back to the window, noting the time on the clock, twenty-two minutes until true-dusk, as his senses alerted to him that John was beginning to stir to wakefulness just beyond the walls.

His mouth twitched, slightly amused, slightly apprehensive, as he took a long, quiet sip from his mug, rapid thoughts sliding across his mind.

He made his way to their bedroom, entering on silent feet to the hollowed dark pitch of their den and by rote slid atop the covers, hand finding the perfect curve of John’s waist and giving a squeeze.

“Are you awake?” He asked quietly, already knowing the answer, and John shifted beneath his touch, limbs stiffening as he gave an exaggerated, feline-like stretch—elbows and neck popping—before falling limp back into the bed, hand finding his sire’s and giving a returned squeeze.

“Mmm.” John murmured, eyes shut.  Sherlock leaned over, nosing his progeny’s neck.

“You woke early again.” Sherlock stated, and John made another somewhat agreeable yet incoherent noise. The vampire gave a sharp huff against his neck. “Words John. Do find use for them.”

“I said yeah. Mm…Yes.” John’s eyes opened now, displaying a slightly cheeky grin, and he rolled to face Sherlock. “I suppose. What time’s it now?”

“Quarter past.”

“Oh, right. That is early. What’s that, third day in a row?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand again, disinterested in their conversation as he shifted his grip and gave Sherlock’s wrist a tug. Even in the utter darkness, Sherlock knew John’s fangs had descended, a Pavlovian response from decades of trained repetition.  

Sherlock resisted, a stronger force than John as he wrenched his arm free from the other’s hold. “You aren’t feeding from me tonight.” And he pushed away and stood quickly, hearing the sharp, unnecessary breath of surprised distress from John.

“What—“

“Wait another ten minutes for the sun to leave our windows, then meet me in the kitchen.” He said swiftly, and without waiting for a reply, left at once.

* * *

He was braced when exactly ten minutes later, John ripped open the door of their bedroom—Sherlock rapped his fingers in annoyance as he certainly heard a hinge bend—as John barged his way into the living room and turned, facing his sire seated calmly on the kitchen stool.

John’s fangs were still descended and his eyes managed to flint dangerously in the dulled light, however now it stemmed from anger, not anticipatory feeding. He gave a growl that died in his throat as Sherlock stood and approached.

“Put those away and sit down.”

John didn’t move an inch, his stubborn streak still strong despite his tenure with his sire.

“John—“ Sherlock began to warn.

“That’s it then?” He spat and Sherlock steeled himself, his face an impassive mask even as John snarled, baring his teeth.

If he were a younger, lesser demon, the aggressive act would have shoved Sherlock straight into the red-zone. However, now coupled with his intimate knowledge of John Watson's inner workings and his centuries-old maturity, he could see beyond the anger into the bristled insecurity and dread that radiated deep within his progeny. However, the defiance irked terribly, something that needed to be addressed immediately, and he loomed closer to John, silvered eyes boring into darkened blue and John balked, shifting his focus to Sherlock’s chest directly in front of him, away from his eyes which sought challenge.

“Put those away. Sit. _Down_.” He repeated, and his tone held no room for argument and he watched John back away, fangs retreating as he sat himself on the adjacent stool.

“I am not _releasing_ you,” Sherlock hissed the word as if it were both revolting and insulting. “You are presenting as my fledge. And as my fledge I am commanded to make certain, let's call them arrangements, for you.”


	2. Nightfall

They had tussled on the rooftops, snapping, restraining and flipping one another over in a playful dance under the moon. Sherlock would get John pinned by the shoulders; the scent of tar was thick and warm from the bygone sun, and snarl into his progeny’s throat, grinning wickedly. John would laugh and vanish from under him, leaving him growling with slight annoyance as John leapt to the adjacent roof.

A two-year old nestling, John bristled with youth and energy, renewed by purpose and companionship. He was swift and all but impossible to subdue at times, which made the act of achieving his submission that much more pleasurable.

They worked their way across London, pouncing, growling and weaving their way around chimneys and smoke.

They would end up settled together on a ledge, legs dangling and hands intertwined, staring off into their dark city. Sherlock would allow John to kiss and nibble at the column of his throat, still imprinting upon him, still young and impressionable, before letting him feed from his wrist.

Two years at his side and John was still hectic, impatient and _greedy_. On that night, Sherlock pulled his wrist away after John had only gotten a single mouthful. His progeny looked at him with confused, owlish eyes before he’d said, “I want to hunt you someone.”

John had grinned, a drop of Sherlock’s blood rolling off a single tooth onto his chin. Sherlock reached and wiped it away with his thumb, before kissing him soundly, feeling John’s chest vibrate with a muted growl.

Sherlock selected their victim, a middle-aged man, a banker given scent of dirty coin metals at his fingertips and the shine of his shoes, and pulled him with a hard heave to the alleyway.

There was no playful way now in which John had pounced. It had been a fierce blow to the man’s throat and Sherlock had stepped back, slightly stunned. There had been no time for the man to even suck in a breath to shout before there was a rip of flesh and muscle and wide eyes had rolled back. Sherlock gave another step to avoid the flood of crimson that splattered to the cobblestone, pooling at their boots.

Sherlock was too astonished to intervene, remaining an impassive figure. Purely observing as his progeny’s hands and front were drenched and the iron scent flooded the air, he was filled with morbid, curious fascination watching John feed.

The man was drained within a minute and dropped, and John went still, blinking as if in shock at the body with an unreadable expression. Sherlock knew that even though the act of breathing was unnecessary for their kind, it now was a societal imperative to give the illusion of humanity. A living, habitual act that needed to remain constant.

“Breathe, John.” He had murmured and the other blinked rapidly and turned, looking both crazed and calm at the same time.

Sherlock had reached, “John.”

“Don’t.” And John had recoiled, _recoiled_! from him, eyes now wide, as if scared of his own sire, his own mate. “We should notify a doctor.”

“John, he's dead.”

John had fallen silent and Sherlock had taken his hand and led him to the rooftops. He was quiet for an unsettling amount of time, and any playfulness that had been their earlier rooftop dance went static as they made their way home, dawn slowly approaching.

Inside their flat, within the safety of their territory, Sherlock had gently cleaned his progeny, careful and worried, although he made sure not to show it, as he wiped John’s arms and throat of blood. He’d tossed the cloth along with John’s sopping shirt and trousers directly into the fire and watched them burn to ash, before joining him inside their darkened room.

His age allowed him to walk within the sunlight, but John’s development required Sherlock’s commitment to remain beside him during his necessary sleep cycles. On occasion he could find himself slipping out for hours at a time before feeling John’s pull for him and returning.

But during that day, the pull and need remained constant, sharp and immovable. Sherlock had spent half the day running hands through John’s hair, his back and pressing lips to his throat, soothing and rhythmic, continuing his imprint. John had clung to him, even in sleep, as if he was a man drowning and Sherlock were his buoy out at sea.

Mycroft had known and all but torn his head off—which the vampire could do, as Sherlock had seen his clan brother complete the act on more than one occasion—infuriated that Sherlock had let a vampire so young jeopardize their family, their coven.

He’d used the word ‘John’ and ‘traumatized’ in the same sentence and Sherlock had sneered. “John is _fine_.” He had snarled, tremendously defensive even as his brother gave him a steeled glare.

“You do not listen to our ways, Sherlock. The act you had your progeny do is something that must be controlled for a first time and only after a hundred years or even more are they deemed ready. A created-child must be controlled or they will frenzy, do you understand?”

Sherlock bristled. He had always despised the term ‘child’ within their culture, particularly within the context of John Watson. John was his own creation, but a grown man, a soldier from the Afghan war, a skilled surgeon even in the heat of battle. John was the only human he had given the gift of second life and loved more than he thought a demon such as he should ever deserve.

But days had passed, and John remained so still and so hatefully quiet, Sherlock found himself continuing to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hangs head in shame* Okay... one more chapter after this ....probably...
> 
> Uh, if you have any kinky, vampire-ish ideas for the next bit, put them in the comments and I'll see what I can do... :D

**Author's Note:**

> [belladonnaq.tumblr.com](http://www.belladonnaq.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  


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